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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 |
part 3
Herr Koch never bothered me again. Still, somehow the word got out that I was writing excuse notes. Less than a week later, another policeman interrupted my lunch. I was sitting outside by myself, enjoying a perfectly good ham sandwich, when the man plopped next to me.
“There’s a three-year old girl with a mild facial asymmetry,” he blurted out, omitting greetings. “She has a scar on her upper lip.”
“Is that child a relation of yours?”
“Daughter of a friend... of a friend.”
“Then why doesn’t your friend come to me in person. Why does he send you?”
I continued feigning ignorance. It gave me immense pleasure to make this Gestapo man uncomfortable. I forgot all about my half-eaten sandwich.
“My friend is very busy.”
“Is he now?”
“The girl was born with... It’s not even a full cleft, more like a dent. The palate is intact. The teeth and gums are in place. She’s almost pretty otherwise. She has big blue eyes and flaxen hair. But the scar... it’s enough to—”
“Have her sent to a certain establishment?”
“Not if we have a document proving that the scar resulted from an accident, like a dog attack.”
There was a limit to how much forging I was willing to do. “I hate to tell you, but dogs usually don’t just go for the upper lip. An accident report will look ridiculous. If you want to make a more convincing case, she’ll need more scars on other parts of her face, like cheeks, chin, forehead, earlobes.”
The man inhaled and nodded. By God, he was eager to follow through with whatever preposterous plan I were to devise.
“All right,” he said, “if it’s necessary. Tell me where to bring her. You will be paid handsomely.”
“Paid for what?”
“For making Leina’s case more plausible. You will make the cuts on her face and close them up to create additional scars. That’s what you are recommending, isn’t it?” He was staring at me, his eyes full of plea and desperation.
“I will do no such thing. I’m a physician, not a surgeon.”
“Perhaps you know someone who will do it. I’m willing to pay any amount. Anything to save my daughter.”
“Ah, so it’s your daughter now? Whatever happened to friend of a friend? Never mind.”
I was beginning to realize that every family — and that included those of prominent Party members — had at least one child that could be deemed unworthy of life. Those who made and enforced the new rules were not immune. I found myself in an awkward, godlike position.
“All right,” I said. “Can I at least see a photograph of your daughter?”
“That could be a problem.”
“You don’t carry family photographs with you?”
“I don’t have one of Leina. She’s never been photographed, for obvious reasons. She barely leaves the house in daylight. It’s chilly now, so my wife wraps a scarf around her neck, hiding the lower part of her face. Our neighbors see her from afar. Our house stands apart from the rest. We don’t entertain guests.”
The story was beginning to upset my emotional equilibrium. I wished the man would stop talking. “Give me your address,” I said, anxious to wrap up this matter. “I’ll come by after work.”
Seven hours later, I was at his house in Landstraße near St. Mark’s Cemetery. It occurred to me that the man had never introduced himself. The anonymity did not bother me; I rather preferred it. The house itself was impressive. Its owner was clearly prospering under the Reich.
A ruddy-faced maid greeted me at the door. She was one of the Eastern Workers recruited from occupied Ukraine. The practice of employing prisoners of war had gained popularity in Germany and was spilling over to Austria as well. I personally never fathomed bringing a stranger to help Hanna with housework but, apparently, other families found this arrangement beneficial.
Contrary to the propaganda caricatures, those girls did not have porcine features. Far from it. They looked no different from Aryans. Some of them spoke several languages, played piano and could solve mathematical equations in their heads. In other words, they were dispelling Hitler’s myth of Slavic inferiority.
“The master is out on duty,” she said. “You’ll be seeing Frau Mezger. She’s finish putting the children to bed. She likes doing it herself. Then she’ll come down with Leina.”
Mezger. So that was the family name. The father was busy making arrests, and the mother was tucking her children in for the night. How idyllic indeed!
“Frau Mezger is the best employer,” the girl continued, unhindered by my lack of interest in engaging in a conversation. “She treats me like family. She gave me a silk blouse and new stockings. They last forever. See?” She pulled up her skirt to display a supple knee. “That’s what I call quality. My name is Jana, by the way.”
“How... how long have you been here?” I asked reluctantly.
“A year and a half. But it feels much longer. It’s like I’ve known them forever. I was meant to live in this house and speak German.”
“Do you have family back home?”
“None. My parents starved to death ten years ago. I don’t remember them. This is my home now. The Mezgers are my family. I adore their children. They think of me as their sister, not just a nanny. We all eat at the same table and go to church together. My parents would be pleased. They were also Catholic, I think.”
I vaguely remember the few years of man-made famine in Ukraine. Not that I paid close attention to what was happening on Soviet territories. It had something to do with collectivization of agriculture, definitely outside of my area of expertise. I understood why many Ukrainians loathed Stalin and welcomed Hitler, why so many adolescents willingly signed up to work for the Reich.
I suspected that most of them did not enjoy the same plush existence as Jana. The majority ended up slaving inside factories, housed in barracks like cattle. This girl was deemed a good candidate for Germanification, being healthy, tall, fair and, most importantly, eager to serve her new country.
The ultimate prize was marrying a German or Austrian man and gaining citizenship. She could not aim as high as a Nazi party member, but a common laborer or soldier would be within her reach. Eighteen months into her placement, Jana was still at the stage of proving herself.
“Would you like some apple strudel?” she asked. “We always offer something to our guests. Frau Mezger’s orders.”
God, no! I have been eating apple strudel for the past week. Hanna has been baking frantically, as if she had a whole army to feed. She must have been feeling anxious about something, probably news from the front. I tell her not to read newspapers, but she likes to stay informed. So no, I did not need another serving of sweet dough stuffed with sour apples. I just wanted to finish my business and go home.
Finally, the mother of the family came down to the living-room. I realized right away that the Ukrainian girl had not been cajoled or intimidated into praising her employer. Frau Mezger indeed was the Aryan Madonna, exuding infinite maternal tenderness, enough to spare for her teenage maid. She looked about six months pregnant.
“You’re free to go, Jana,” she said. “No need to get up early. Sleep in.”
The Ukrainian squirmed with pleasure, giggled and ran off, but not before kissing her benefactress on the cheek. The gesture of familiarity left me slightly appalled, to be honest. There was still a certain hierarchy to be observed.
“Jana is such a gem,” Frau Mezger said after the girl had left. “It’s awful what happened to her parents. They were murdered by the communists, starved to death. Such an agonizing way to go. Can you imagine? Even missing one meal leaves you feeling weak and lightheaded.”
Yes, I could imagine. Having my lunch interrupted by the Gestapo was irritating enough. Those Ukrainian farmers endured a whole year of meal disruptions. My heart went out to them. Even a latent autistic psychopath like me could feel their anguish.
“I’d like to see the patient now,” I said, putting the conversation back on track. “I assume your husband won’t be joining us.”
“He’s working late at the headquarters.”
Another late night of arrests, interrogations and tortures.
Frau Mezger escorted me upstairs. The second floor of their house resembled a honeycomb. All five children had small individual bedrooms, a peculiar indulgence.
Leina’s room was at the end of the hallway. The little patient was wide awake, sitting on her bed, her face wrapped in a scarf.
“Does she always wear the scarf, even at home?”
“Yes. She removes it only to eat and brush her teeth. She sleeps with it, too. We thought it would be better for her to get used to it.”
I did not think it necessary to introduce myself to the child. My name would not mean anything to her anyway. With one swift motion I pulled off the scarf. What I saw underneath was underwhelming, to say the least. At first, I was not sure what I was looking at. The patch of red skin underneath her left nostril looked like irritation from rhinitis. When I cupped the girl’s face and turned it to the light, I finally saw a tiny cat scratch of a scar.
“Who did the initial surgery?” I asked.
“A medical student. Nobody you’d know. He came to our house with surgical tools and chloroform. He warned us there was a chance Leina wouldn’t wake up. Thankfully, it went well. He’s in Italy now, studying theology. Wants nothing to do with medicine. And who can blame him?”
Indeed, who can blame him? Certainly not I, Hans Asperger. I would love to be on another continent. Another planet, perhaps. Alas, higher powers placed me here, in Vienna.
It was time to write the note that Frau Mezger has been so anxiously awaiting. I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a blank form with the clinic’s letterhead.
The negligible scar tissue and slight septal deviation result from a fall at age nine months. Initial trauma surgery performed according to Victor Frühwald’s method. Cosmetic correction may be possible in the future but not necessary.
Heil Hitler
God himself dictated that note. He was the one who gave me the idea to mention Victor Frühwald, the most revered plastic surgeon in Vienna. One simply did not argue with Frühwald. Name-dropping at its finest!
Frau Mezger took the note from my hands and immediately locked it in the top drawer of the secretary desk, lest I should change my mind.
“When Leina was born,” she said, “I was so afraid to show her to Randolph. I was so afraid he would get angry with me, blame me for everything. But he was so tender and understanding. Thankfully, Leina was born at home without any external witnesses. No doctor has seen her, except for the young student.”
Frau Mezger winced and put a hand on her swelling belly. Her waxy complexion and brittle hair suggested severe anemia. I knew it was not my place to comment on such matters, but I did so anyway.
“This... defect is believed to be a result of iron deficiencies. It’s common in impoverished regions, where food is scarce. Your body is depleted. You may want to space out pregnancies more.”
She gave me that perplexed look, as if I had asked her to walk on her hands. “But how can this be achieved? God keeps giving us children.”
“Good old-fashioned abstinence.”
“I cannot ask that of my husband! He is a healthy man with an appetite.”
“Tell him to channel his... ardor into his work.”
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Copyright © 2025 by Marina J. Neary